


Rapunzel

by headonthedoor



Category: Watchmen (Comic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Possibly Technically a Kink Meme Fill, Purple Prose, red hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:42:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21594007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headonthedoor/pseuds/headonthedoor
Summary: The braid comes undone. Hair spills around his shoulders. Such a ridiculous color on anyone else, but it suits him. The reddest of reds, somewhere between fire and blood.Dan discovers Rorschach's long, glorious hair.
Relationships: Dan Dreiberg/Rorschach
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	Rapunzel

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beans and Bacon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006576) by [MadBertha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadBertha/pseuds/MadBertha). 



> I've wanted to write this fic ever since reading MadBertha's and getting the idea of a long-haired Rorschach into my head. Beware, the purple prose is... extreme.

It comes as a shock. More than the face (you've already seen so much, mask rolled up inch by inch a little further each time) or the name (Walter, your Walter). Not the color, you knew that already, stubble and body hair. But...

"But why?" You ask.

It's 1975. The glory days of long hair on men have been and gone. Your own hair is respectably cut for the time, passing just past your ears and curling where it ends. His is long and glorious, like some free spirited hippie still clinging to his ways, when he is anything but. Or a rock star. It's wrapped in a braid around his head, like your grandmother used to do in the old country. Easy to tuck under latex.

He just shrugs. Makes a guttural, noncommital noise. Like he doesn't know. Maybe he does and isn't telling you. Maybe he really doesn't. Some things about Rorschach (Walter, _Walter_ ) are like that. They just are, without rhyme or reason. You aren't complaining. 

"Do you get looks?"

He snorts. "I'm always going to get looks. Just that ugly."

Could it be vanity? He would never acknowledge it, but he can be vain. His suit neatly pressed, his gloves cleaned after every fight, adjusting his hat, the _mask._ You wonder if it is, in part, a desire to cultivate the only part of himself he sees as beautiful.

But he isn't ugly. Not remotely.

"You're not ugly, Walter." You reach out to touch his face. He flinches.

"Sorry."

"No. It's okay, Daniel." He takes your hand and brings it to his cheek. You feel his features as if you were learning each one for the first time. The same, but different. You move to touch his hair, fingers hovering over it like it's a flame you're afraid to touch.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel," you joke, "let down your hair."

"A princess at the top of a very tall tower, waiting for rescue. I remember."

That part hadn't even occurred to you. Such a long time ago.

"Oh, but you're so steady on your feet now. You don't need me to save you."

"Doesn't matter. There's always room in my heart for a handsome prince," Walter says wryly.

And it's the most ridiculous thing you could possibly hear him say, even if it is just a joke. So ridiculous that you'd laugh if only you could. If only there weren't a lump in your throat. Your hands hover, still. They shake like you're seventeen in the backseat of a car, trying to unclasp a bra for the first time.

Or thirty-three and trying to undo another man's belt for the first time.

"Let me..."

The braid comes undone. Hair spills around his shoulders. That rare red, such a ridiculous color on anyone else, but it suits him. The reddest of reds, somewhere between fire and blood. It is a violent sunset, the warning colors of a poisonous plant, the breeding plumage of an exotic bird you could only dream of seeing.

It's the hair of a viking warrior, but it fans and flows like Botticelli's Venus when you lay him down. You can hear the gods sing as you kiss your way down his body. Red hair here too, red on white, freckles dusting his neck and shoulders until the line of his shirt cuts them off. Red all the way down.

"Do you want me to put it back up?" He asks you when it's his turn.

And it would be practical, but no. You couldn't bear it. So you hold it for him.

You always thought his hair would be coarse, but it's soft. Softer than silk and hotter than fire, and sweeter than sugar, like his mouth on you.

You've been so focused on his hair that you've barely noticed his eyes. Now he looks at you -- really looks at you -- for the first time, and you melt. Your world collapses inward and it's just you and him and your pleasure, a searing hot flame. Red and brown and black and white, forever and ever.

Morning comes as you lie wrapped in the sheet together. You have not a care in the world today. Nothing to do but stroke his hair as you watch the sun rise, the reds in it like the strands between your fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly no hair washing in this. Maybe there will be a sequel. ;)


End file.
